


Eliot Waugh's Full Moon Cuddle Party

by ceeainthereforthat



Series: Hedonism for Beginners [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Eliot hosts an orgy, Exhibitionism, Feelings, In the Dark, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Quentin's massive crush on Eliot, Quentin's persistent anxious overthinking, Rimming, Season One Shenanigans, inexperienced quentin, quentin coldwater discovers his kink, that has an optional orgy component, well okay it's a cuddle party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 03:23:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19123564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceeainthereforthat/pseuds/ceeainthereforthat
Summary: Eliot hosts an orgy once a month. Fine. It's a cuddle party that has an optional orgy component.Quentin finds out from gossip in the library.





	Eliot Waugh's Full Moon Cuddle Party

Quentin learns about the cuddle party because he eavesdrops on someone else talking about it. He's in the library, trying to copy Alice's notes on Healing magic because he zoned out in class again, and he still can't concentrate on the workings of the endocrine system. The students are walking past him when he hears it, but he knows he hears _"Eliot's full moon fest"_ as they walk past and he swallows, because the full moon is tonight, and he never heard anything about a party. He gives up on the notes after that.

When he goes home, Eliot's skin is pink from a hot bath in the bathroom just off the kitchen. He leans against the counter in his floral silk robe chugging ice water with pink clay drying on his face, and Quentin has to stand still and let whatever slipped between its ribs hurt him—a tiny, sharp pain that stops his breath for a second. It's true. Eliot's giving a party, and he never asked Quentin to come.

Eliot must have seen it on his face, because he sets the water bottle down and faces him with a careful, attentive expression. "You heard."

"And not from you."

He looks down at the worn linoleum tile in the kitchen, gentle as he delivers his explanation. "The full moon fest isn't for everyone, Q. It's not a get drunk and dance on the furniture kind of party. It's a little more—" Eliot narrows his eyes while he searches for the right word. "Carnal."

"Oh."

Eliot shrugs. "It didn't start that way, but it's that way now."

Eliot had flirted with Quentin at first. But then he'd asked him, early in the school year, if he was a virgin. When Quentin said no, Eliot shrugged and clarified that he meant with men. Quentin had paused just a little bit too long, and Eliot had...retreated, a little. He still looped one arm around Quentin's shoulders, or held his hand when they were out walking on campus together, but the seduction jokes stopped, and Eliot was more careful around him. Solicitous. Gentle. And just a tiny bit out of reach.

This party was definitely something Eliot considered out of Quentin's reach. "So you're hosting an orgy," Quentin says. "You could have told me that."

"You make it sound so easy. What if you wanted to come?"

That's the problem, isn't it? A virgin at an orgy, ha ha, come on now. But Quentin lifts his chin and looks Eliot in the eye. "What if I did?" 

Eliot eyes him for a minute. It's not a skeptical look. It's not dismissive. He's...holy shit. Is he thinking about it?

Eliot picks up his water bottle and hollows his cheeks sucking on the valve. "Okay, look. The whole thing's anonymous. First hour is a cuddle and makeout party. The room is totally dark. There are boys and there are girls, so everyone's okay with that. No one speaks above a whisper. Dress code is no long fingernails, no buttons, no zippers, no metal except piercings, pick soft stuff to wear, none of it comes off. When the bell sounds, it's a five minute grace period. You can leave or you can stay. Staying means you are okay with part two, where clothes can—and do—come off."

"Okay."

"Okay what?" Eliot asks.

"Okay, I understand."

"Not okay, I want to go?"

"Are you inviting me?"

Eliot tilts his head, regarding Quentin again. Quentin looks him in the eye, steady, unflinching, and Eliot's face slides from _'are you sure about this, Coldwater?'_ to _'yeah, fuck it'_ and Quentin's heart leaps.

"You'll have to groom," Eliot says, scraping a finger down the side of Quentin’s cheek. "None of that stubble. You want to be smooth and soft. And you can stop at cuddling and making out. Are you in?"

He's invited to an orgy—a cuddle party. He doesn't have to stay past the first hour. No one says he has to have sex unless he wants to. Quentin nods. "Yeah, I'm in."

.o.O.o. 

With the no buttons no zippers rule, Quentin's choice is basically a pair of sweatpants - not the sexiest - and he's got a million t-shirts, so he picks the softest one. He takes his time shaving and uses the body scrub Julia bought him but he never really used, and he feels silky. Touchable. Maybe he should use something like that more often. He smells like cocoa when he walks out into the night, following the directions Eliot gave him to a building and the right hallway where people left their shoes to crawl into a dark, padded space, warm with people and their perfumes. The soft surface under his knees is spongy, like gym mats.

Quentin stays on his hands and knees and listens to people breathing, dotted by quiet, approving moans, a soft gasp—he's late. People are already pairing up, and this is just another party where he gets to sit in a corner and listen to it go by. Eliot hadn't wanted to invite him, and then he pressured Eliot into extending a pity invitation, and now it's just awkward. Quentin shouldn't have come.

But then someone touches his hand, and he freezes. It was a mistake. They didn't mean to. But the hand trails the smooth, warm surface of a fingernail up his arm until long fingers curve over the knob of his shoulder, then walk across his back to pet and comb his hair—and the strands, silky soft and at their most swingy after a fresh washing, skim along the side of his jaw. The hand pulls gently at his shoulder, inviting him closer.

Quentin crawls into a man's lap. He's wearing stretchy spandex leggings, a silky, loose t-shirt over a wiry, slender torso, and he sits still for Quentin's exploring touch. Quentin dabbles gentle fingers over the stranger's face—and feels the crinkly, curly growth of his sideburns.

No. Couldn't be. But he traces the man's jaw and gasps when his finger dips into the cleft of the man's chin—no. Eliot's chin. Eliot felt his hair—he knows it's Q. And he pulled Quentin closer, inviting him to have a cuddle.

Oh man. His heart's already beating so fast. Eliot wanted to cuddle with him—did he mean to cuddle him until the hour bell rang? Was this—did Eliot want to _fuck_ him? Did he—

Slow down. A hug. It's just a hug. Sure. Okay. He hugs back, and Eliot's content to just stay that way, pressed together and soothing. He strokes Quentin's back: down, then up, in a regular rhythm that Quentin matches with his breaths. Don't think. Don't freak out. Breathe. In...Out.

Hugging Eliot is good. It's soft and warm and relaxing. A nice cuddle. Nothing wrong with that, or with the gentle fuzzy tingling on his skin—this feels so good. Not the sort of thing Quentin thought about doing with Eliot, but he sighs and settles in. Eliot's comfortable. He could sleep like this. He wants to sleep like this. Would Eliot let him crawl into bed and just sleep with him? Would that be weird, or too clingy, or—

Quentin's not good at playing cool. Eliot has to know that Quentin likes him. He doesn't seem to mind, and now they're hugging, and maybe he should just relax and not make it weird— 

Eliot smells good. Quentin breathes in sandalwood and honey and a little spicy something that makes Quentin want to bury his nose in the crook of Eliot's neck. Breathe. Breathe with Eliot. In...Out. He slips back into being fuzzy, being close. Eliot's making sure he gets a good cuddle. Eliot is so nice. He's so damn hot, but he's nice, too. Especially to those Eliot claimed as his people. 

Was Quentin his person?

Eliot strokes his back, and Quentin remembers to Breathe. In...Out. Cuddling. It's nice. Maybe they can cuddle again after this— 

And then Eliot kisses his neck. Soft. Light as air, his lips barely brushing over the skin—a kiss of breath and the tiniest flick of his tongue, and Quentin's back to heart-hammering, finger clenching tension. He bares his throat and Eliot kisses his way up the sensitive, nerve-rich path from his collarbone to his ear and Quentin's whole body wakes up, his cock filling up with want. Fuck. Just from a whisper of a kiss, how did Eliot do that?

And what else can he do?

Eliot's finger presses against his lips. Shh. He finger-combs Quentin's hair away from his ear and plays with the outer edge and it makes Quentin's eyelids flutter to hold still and let Eliot do whatever he wants—anywhere he touches with his velvety smooth lips and the tiniest touch of his tongue lights up in Quentin's mind. He's glowing with the sensation; when Eliot whispers _"good"_ in his ear, Quentin's all but melting with the praise.

Eliot kisses his temple and grazes another kiss over his cheek. He presses his lips to Quentin's jaw, his chin, and brushes gentle lips against Quentin's mouth, enough to drag a soft, high-pitched moan from his throat.

Against Quentin's lips, Eliot smiles—and then they're kissing, Eliot's hand curved around the back of Quentin's neck and they're kissing like they need it to survive. Quentin can't help himself. He wraps his legs around Eliot's waist and tickles his fingertips up the back of Eliot's neck and the soft noise that escapes from Eliot's throat makes Quentin's cock throb. Fuck. Fuck. He's never been kissed like this—not in the gossamer, ethereal way, and not in this hungry, needy way—and Eliot's tongue against his is pushing every button he has. Eliot's wandering hand finds the stiff peak of his nipples and Quentin gasps—

He can't hear anyone around him any more. There's no sound of kissing, no whisper of fabric sliding against skin, no moans or gasps—they're quiet, and in the velvet blackness of the cuddle room Quentin wonders if they all stopped because he can't stop—he can't stop the harsh, throat-filling breaths or the insistent grind of his body or the noises Eliot's wringing out of him, the noises Eliot's making in his own throat. He wonders if they're gathered around the edges of the room, listening to him make all these shameless sounds...and the idea spreads dirty, sex-crazed thoughts from his mind's eye down to his curling toes.

They can listen all they want. They can listen as Eliot strips off every stitch, puts him facedown on the soft, cushiony floor, and fucks him right in the middle of the room. He wants them to hear what Eliot's doing to him—what Eliot's making him _feel_ right here in front of them. 

The idea makes his back arch. A full shiver chases down his spine. Eliot tilts backwards and Quentin follows, straddled across Eliot's hips. Eliot grabs a handful of Quentin's ass and squeezes—

A bell rings, and Quentin barely hears it.

.o.O.o.

Movement whispers all around them. Some people crawl out of the cuddle room. Others shift and position themselves around the walls, but it's still so quiet. Quentin feels the pressure of the people in that dark room, listening to Eliot turn him into a helpless, whimpering mess.

Eliot breaks off kissing, hushing Quentin's half-wailed _no_ to whisper in his ear. 

"Do you want to stop?" he asks.

"No," Quentin says.

"What do you want?"

Quentin licks his lips. "Fuck me."

"Okay," Eliot whispers. "Here?"

He's giving Quentin an out. Eliot will leave the cuddle room with him, and take him to a nice proper bed and soft music, where they can start over from the beginning in privacy. No problem. But the idea's already wormed its way into Quentin's head—he doesn't know who's still in the room with him. He doesn't know who's listening to the sounds of their kisses, to Quentin's half-broken groans, but they're gathered against the walls for _him_ and the idea of them listening to him get fucked is going straight to his cock.

Quentin kisses Eliot again, fumbling for the hem of his shirt. Eliot moans and rolls them over, hips grinding his hard cock against Quentin's, lips next to his ear:

"Kinky. But I'm into it."

Then he finds Quentin's wrists and pins him down, kissing him dizzy. Quentin squirms, struggling against the hold Eliot has on his wrists and gyrating his hips under Eliot's weight. Quentin almost can't take it. He's breathing hard, really struggling now, because Eliot will let him fight and squirm and revel in it. Eliot will hold him down. Is he smiling at the way Quentin's working himself up, at the gasps and half bitten moans?

Then Eliot lets his wrists go and Quentin fumbles a little. He'd gotten right into it, even lifting the taller, heavier Eliot off the ground with the rise of Quentin's hips.

"Easy," Eliot soothes. "I'm not ready to be done with you."

Clothes slide off Quentin's body, discarded off to the side. Eliot kisses down Quentin's breastbone, making him gasp when clever, nimble fingers play over his skin, almost tickling. Cool air hits the messy fluid leaked over his belly from the tip of his throbbing hard cock. Quentin shivers as Eliot kisses over his tensed up abdomen, lips brushing along the edge of the smear. He stops, and Quentin flushes with the feeling of Eliot finding the proof of how much this turns him on. He gropes around, hoping for his t-shirt, his sweats, something to wipe up the mess—

And then Eliot's licking it up, all lips and tongue and long, happy _mmm_ noises, his lips stretching into a smile as Quentin's cock jumps and twitches for attention. Fuck, he's so desperately eager for this. He's stripped absolutely bare—not just naked, but exposed, and his cock is still leaking away, sticky and dying for more.

No one can see how his mouth hangs open. No one can see his eyelids flutter. But they hear him when Eliot takes the head of his dick in his mouth and sucks.

Quentin tries to be quiet. He clenches his jaw, seals his lips shut, _but Eliot Waugh is sucking his cock_ and his tongue is sliding along the sweet spot just on the under-side of the head and he knows when his dick leaks because Eliot _mmms_ every fucking time like it's delicious. Quentin can't help the astonished sounds he makes. Eliot's blowing his mind and everyone can hear it; one hand clamped over his mouth barely muffles it. Eliot's mouth is hot and his tongue is magic and then he's swallowing Quentin down with a noisy, filthy slurp. He can't handle this. It's so fucking good and Eliot's fucking him with his mouth and he can't, oh _god_ he can't—

But the pressure's building, the sensation's ramping up past good and into too much. No no not yet, not yet—

"Come I'm gonna come—" No talking above a whisper, that's the rule, but he can't end this yet. Eliot pops up off his dick and squeezes the base and it's just in time. Quentin bites his lip hard enough for it to hurt, and the rushing, deep need to burst subsides, leaving him shaking and groaning.

Someone sighs out there in the darkness. Someone's breathing fast and hard, and he can smell the unmistakable, sea-laden scent of a turned-on woman. She moans, just a little, and a bolt of arousal shoots through Quentin. She's turned on from listening to Eliot wreck him. He imagines her legs drawn apart, knees high as she rubs her clit because listening to Quentin almost losing it got inside her head. Maybe someone's doing it for her—and that thought makes him bite his lower lip and moan.

Eliot nudges at his shoulder. Turn over, that means. Quentin gets on his belly, raising himself to hands and knees, pushing into Eliot's hands when he cups Quentin's ass and pulls his cheeks apart. Quentin shivers, waiting for that first touch—and he stiffens as Eliot's breath warms his skin, making him gasp as that breath puffs over his hole—

Lips. There. Eliot's tongue, _there,_ and it's so brain-meltingly hot Quentin has to brace himself on his elbows and oh god Eliot, Eliot's tongue feels so good and it's so—

"Oh fuck, Oh fuck—" Quentin hits the padded floor with the side of his fist and whimpers. No one ever—oh, fuck, Eliot, oh fuckinghelljesus _christ_ it's so good, it's so sensitive and it's so _dirty_ and Quentin wails with what it's doing to him. He whimpers Eliot's name, he sticks his ass in the air like he's begging for more, and he hits the floor again, all but sobbing as Eliot slides his tongue inside him. He doesn't dare touch his cock. There's no way he wouldn't go up like a rocket. 

Do they know? Can they guess at what Eliot's doing to him, by the way he hums and kisses and slurps, by the way Quentin's coming completely unglued? Quentin can feel them listening, can hear a soft murmur of unintelligible words off to his left. Fuck. He's really doing this in front of people, letting them hear everything—and they're getting off on it, it's so hot. He can't believe he's doing this. It feels so natural. So powerful.

When Eliot stops, he mutters something Quentin can't quite make out, and then he's sliding one slippery finger inside Quentin's ass. The small of Quentin's back tingles, and he rotates his hips to open up for Eliot's finger, so slow and careful, like Quentin's going to break if he's too fast, too rough, too deep. Quentin pushes himself backwards and Eliot gets the hint, sliding two fingers inside him.

Yeah. Oh yeah, fuck. Fingers can curve in ways that Quentin's dildo can't. Eliot pushes deeper, and the long, throaty groan that falls from Quentin's mouth is all satisfaction. It's interrupted by Eliot curving his long fingers down to rub—

Quentin squeaks and reaches back to pull his cheeks apart. Eliot stiffens his fingers and fucks him like that, and the teasing slide over his prostate makes him want to babble Eliot's name and promise him anything, anything he wants, only please, just a little more, please…

Quentin tries to breathe, to get his thoughts together, but everything Eliot does sends them scattering across the floor. All he can do is feel. His thighs quiver every time it feels like Eliot's going to slide his fingers out. The mat under Quentin's cheek is warm, smelling a little like rubber. Quentin moans when Eliot's sure he's prepped enough and slides his fingers out of his ass. It's not a protest.

He knows what's coming.

A collective breath from the people around them. Quentin presses his hands into the soft surface to brace himself and relaxes as much as he can. Relax. He listens to the people listening to him, can feel the tension as they wait to hear what comes next.

Eliot bends over to whisper in Quentin's ear, and Quentin turns his head to steal a kiss from him. Eliot kisses him like that was exactly the idea, and Quentin's head is full, fuzzy and starving for more.

Eliot grins and kisses his nose. "Ready?"

"Yes."

Eliot mutters again, and just as quickly sighs, and the wet sounds of jerking off a well-lubed cock goes straight into Quentin's brain. Someone lets out a held breath with a deep, horny grunt. Quentin whimpers and shakes his ass as if that'll make Eliot get over here and fuck him that much faster—and then stills as Eliot's warm, big hand settles on his hip.

Breathe. Oh fuck, breathe. It's coming—breathe, now. In...Out. Calm is a tiny point of pressure just between the eyes. The rest of Quentin is a strung-out mess, but he breathes, and Eliot caresses his back, showing him the rhythm. In...Out.

"Good," Eliot praises, and Quentin's so happy he's ready to cry.

Then he feels it—too smooth to be a finger. Too _big,_ nudged up against his lube-slick hole, just pressing the slightest bit, not anywhere enough to go in. Oh fuck oh fuck Quentin can tell, he can tell Eliot's even bigger than the dildo he bought with a little fear shimmering through him because it was more than he could chew, and it was days before he could fuck himself nice and hard on it and the orgasm that day made his knees weak and Eliot's bigger than that, oh shit, how big—

Eliot strokes his back and doesn't move on him. Quentin tries pushing, a bit, but Eliot stops him. Okay. Relax. Eliot won't do it if it hurts too much, if Quentin's too tense, so he breathes, and he sinks into the mat a little more, and murmurs something soft and gentle.

The moment he feels himself relax enough to open up, Eliot nudges inside and Quentin lifts his head, sharp, high noises dragged out of his mouth. Eliot holds still, groaning as Quentin pushes himself back—fuck, fuck fuck. He's so big and Quentin's sucking up a wail as he stretches, his body trying to push Eliot's dick out even as he's pressing in, resisting the intrusion but fuck that. He wants this. He wants Eliot to stuff him full of cock. To fuck him senseless in front of all these people gathered in this dark room to hang on every sound they make.

Eliot holds still and lets Quentin settle down before he pushes again, and it's easier, easier, no no _wait_ hold on breathe, breathe—he's stretched so wide when his body gives up the struggle and surrenders to the long, deep slide of Eliot's cock. He lets out a long, throaty sigh. Nothing's ever going to be like Eliot's dick filling him up, nobody's ever going to come close to making Quentin feel like this. When Eliot's body is finally flush against his, when every inch is stuffed up inside him and Eliot lets out a deep, satisfied sigh and mutters _fuck_ just under his breath, the whole room groans along with him.

It's perfect. Nearly perfect. Quentin sighs and releases the tension cording along his spine and wishes he could sigh out Eliot's name, filled with everything he feels at taking him all inside. His relief. His pride. His awestruck wonder that he fucking did it. The final step that tips his feelings for Eliot from fluttering, precious attraction into full-bloomed limerence. Filled to the brim, Quentin's starving. Eliot's not moving yet, but Eliot's pulse beats deep inside Quentin's body.

When he moves, it's to bend over Quentin's body and wrap one arm around his torso, to scatter kisses over his shoulder, up the back of his neck. To caress the taut skin stretched over his ribs, to make Quentin gasp as one circling fingertip toys with his nipple.

"Good," he praises again, and it makes Quentin shiver. "You're so good. Ready?"

"Fuck me." It's a whisper, but so loud, so clear he asks it of the whole room. 

Eliot kisses his neck and moves so slowly Quentin quivers.

"Of fuck, more—"

Quentin drops his head down below his shoulders. Eliot grips him just at the bend of his hips, holding Quentin still as he slides farther, deeper, so big and so full—

"More."

Eliot lets out a deep, throaty groan and grips Quentin's hip harder as he gives up being slow, being careful. He draws his hips back and fucks, deeper, faster. 

Quentin can't think. Everything is Eliot fucking him, and the sounds of people around him groaning, the slap of bodies crashing together and everyone around him is fucking, now, they're fucking and moaning and Quentin's in the middle of something more than just people fucking in the same room because they got off on listening. It's something Eliot did, while he was taking Quentin apart—something in his touches and his kisses that touched everyone. 

And what Eliot's doing to him right now is — it's perfect. Every fingertip pressed into his skin, deep enough to hold him still and make him take the perfect, relentless fucking, hard enough that Quentin has to push back against it to keep from being shoved across the floor. Every deep snap of Eliot's hips pushes a broken, ecstatic sound from Quentin and if he thought he was wrecked before, he's devastated now, and Eliot's talking like he doesn't even realize he's making words. _So good. Perfect, so perfect for me, fuck, oh fuck you're so good, so good—_

And then Eliot's going faster, his movements sharper, his voice louder. He fucks Quentin so deep his balls slap against Quentin's body. He did this to Eliot. He made him lose his grip on everything and made him forget everything but just fucking his way to coming, and it's so hot Quentin reaches for his own dick, slippery and leaking all over his fingers before he strokes twice and comes so hard he sees stars. 

"Oh fuck. Oh fuck I'm gonna—" Eliot slams into Quentin's body, trembling as he shoots and Quentin can feel it, every pulse and jerk and it's more than he can take in, Eliot's coming and he slumps over Quentin's back and he's coated in sweat, They slide down onto the padded floor and can't do anything but breathe, still joined together, as everyone around them comes in a great chorus of sound and collapses, exhausted. 

.o.O.o.

It takes a while for Quentin to go from mindless, satiated bliss to thinking in coherent concepts—but as soon as he can form concepts into words, his eyes spring open. Useless in full darkness. But he listens, and hears it again: a woman giggling outside the tunnel leading to the cuddle room, her hard soled shoes drumming against wooden floor with every step. 

He and Eliot are alone. Eliot just fucked his brains out in the middle of a room full of people and Quentin let him do it and why didn't he think this through? Are they gonna pretend it was anonymous? Act like it didn't happen, or— 

"You're thinking."

Eliot's curled around him, smelling of sweat and raunchy sex, and he squeezes Quentin's shoulder before rolling onto his back.

"Can you smell the wood burning?"

"You tense up and calculate all the probable disasters and then wait for them to land on your head. Relax. If any fuck ever deserved a cigarette right after, it was that one," Eliot says. "Quentin. You surprise me. Did you really just let me have your first time in a room full of cuddlebunnies?"

He's cold. "Yeah. I just, it just happened."

"I was going to do this differently," Eliot says. "I thought I had it all planned out. I was going to lay you in my bed and take you gently—with active consent—and give you a properly romantic deflowering."

Quentin lifts his head. He was what? He planned on—Eliot had wanted to— "When were you going to do this?"

"Originally, when you were ready. Then I revised that to after we talked about the cuddle room. And then I scratched that for right after we ran our asses across campus after the cuddle room went further than I thought. And then—" Eliot chuckles. "It just happened."

Hold on. Eliot had a point about him calculating probable disasters, because this wasn't on his list of things that could happen. Eliot wanting him wasn't on the list, but he just said— "You wanted to have sex with me?"

Eliot chuckles again. "Ridiculous boy. I've wanted into your pants since the day I met you. Come here. I feel lonely."

Quentin lets Eliot wrap arms and legs around him. Eliot's warm. He smells sweaty, underneath the sandalwood and honey, and it's sexy, because Eliot smells like he just fucked Quentin silly, and it makes him smile. "I thought you'd backed off."

"I did. I didn't want to crowd you. I tend to come on a little strong."

"I'm a nerd," Quentin says. "I thought you didn't want me."

"I'm sorry," Eliot says. "I made you feel that. I was just trying to move slow. I've been angling to get you naked for weeks...and now that I have you, I don't really want to let you go."

He doesn't—Quentin's brain fuzzes for a second. Eliot doesn't just want him. He wants to keep him. It rushes over his skin, furry soft and impossible. "I don't want you to let me go," Quentin says. "Give me a minute, and we can do it again."

"Braggart. I might be able to move in an hour. And then I'm going to take you to bed. To sleep," Eliot says.

To sleep, all cuddled up, just like Quentin wanted. Not clingy. Not weird. Natural. Powerful. "So, we're, we're together."

"Mm," Eliot agrees. "I want that. Do you?"

"Yeah. Yeah," Quentin says. He feels like he's glowing, he's so happy. "I thought you had some kind of no virgins policy. Even though I've fucked myself nine ways to Sunday on a suction cup mounted dildo."

Eliot kisses Quentin's forehead, his cheekbone. "I'd love to watch you fuck yourself on a dildo. And you'd like to be watched, wouldn't you?"

Quentin's fucked out. He's totally satiated. But the visual is very, very nice. "You want to watch me do everything I did while I thought about you fucking me?"

"Fuck yes," Eliot says. "And I want to hear about everything you thought about me doing to you."

"Oh wow. Some of it's a bit—there's stuff we can't do."

"Not all fantasies have to come true, Q. But you like being watched. You like being witnessed," Elliot says. "It gets up into your head, doesn't it?"

"Yeah." 

"Kinky. But I'm into it." Eliot kisses his temple again. "I have a couple ideas on who would be happy to watch you. But tell me. What do you think about coming with me and Margo to Ibiza?"


End file.
